While on Baker Street
by Tragic Alchemy
Summary: Somewhere between Sherlock's reintegration into the world of the living after his two year absence and John's lifelong commitment to marriage, Mrs. Hudson's distant friend travels from the states to visit the UK. As the story unfolds, it seems that while pitted up against the great Sherlock Holmes, she's got a few quirks herself... NOT A SHERLOCK X OC... Soon to be a Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **As much as I don't enjoy reading stories with OCs, I love writing them. This is one of those that has been in my hard drive for months, but I have finally decided to go ahead and post. Meet Jaime Middleton, a long lost friend of Mrs. Hudson's. While this seems as though there will be a developing relationship between her and Sherlock, DON'T WORRY. I'm too much of a Sherlolly shipper to let that happen. )

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any characters that derive from BBC's Sherlock. Jaime is the only one I can claim.

**While on Baker Street**

**-1-**

"221 Baker Street, please," I requested of the cab driver after I had glanced down at the address scrawled in ink across the palm of my hand. I finished situating my luggage and gave him a nod as soon as I was ready to move.

"American?" he questioned as I studied the buildings that passed.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked.

"Not to everyone," he assured. "I'm a cabbie, so I've grown accustomed to recognizing different accents."

"I see," I responded.

"First time in London?" he asked.

"Yes. Visiting a family friend," I told him before he could ask.

"For how long are you staying?" he continued to venture.

"Haven't decided yet," I answered honestly. He must have taken that as a signal to end our conversation because he didn't return with more inquiries. Instead, he let me enjoy the slow ride through central London.

"221 Baker Street," the driver told me as he rolled to a stop outside a sandwich shop.

"Right. Thanks."

"Would you like help with your cases?" he asked.

"No, thank you. I've got them," I said as I stepped from the car, threw one bag over my shoulder, and then drug the larger bag from its resting spot on the seat. I handed the cabbie my payment and turned to drag my bag onto the curb.

"Enjoy London," he called from his window before driving off. I nodded to acknowledge his kindness and then faced my destination, my dirty blonde hair clinging to my face where small droplets of perspiration began to gather. I stared at the sandwich shop until my golden brown eyes rested upon the door to the left of it, and I focused on the numbers there. 221. Yeah, this was it. I waddled my way up the few steps, my bags clearly weighing me down, and knocked several times on the front door. I didn't even have a chance to catch my breath before the door swung open.

"Jaime!" I was greeted excitedly.

"Mrs. H!" I exclaimed as I recognized my family's old friend.

"Come in, come in!" she sang, motioning me forward. I wedged myself into the hallway only to drop my bags and throw my arms around her. She was such a welcome sight.

"I am so glad to see you," she said. "And you're just as gorgeous as your mother."

"Heh, thank you. I'm so happy to be here," I told her.

"You must be so exhausted!" she decided. "And starved!"

"No, I'm not hungry, thank you," I heard a smooth, golden voice recite behind me. I spun on my heels and was greeted by two men: one with a soft face and welcoming smile, the other tall with perfectly carved features and piercing eyes.

"Sherlock! John!" Mrs. Hudson greeted. She amazed me—always happy to see people. I bit back a smile at the thought and averted my gaze from the prying eyes of the tall stranger. "Jaime, this is John Watson," Mrs. Hudson said as she nodded to the man with the kind expression.

"Hello," I said, extending my hand in greeting. He smiled, nodded, and accepted the handshake.

"And this is Sherlock Holmes," she said as she motioned to the other man.

"Hello," I said again, offering Sherlock the same gesture of a handshake. He stared at my hand a moment then moved his eyes back to my face.

"Charmed," he said with a brief, toothless smile while leaving my handshake unreciprocated. The golden voice clearly belonged to him. I blinked and retracted my hand with a bemused expression on my lips.

"They live in the flat upstairs," Mrs. Hudson told me before turning back to the men. "Boys, this is Jaime Middleton. My lovely niece."

"Niece?" Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows pulled together. "You don't have a niece."

"Oh, not by blood, silly," she told him. "Her mother and I were flat mates years ago before she moved to America. Sadly, Grace passed away a few years back." She paused for a moment and then turned to me, lowering her voice. "I'm so sorry, dear, that I wasn't able to make it to the service."

"It's fine," I assured her. "I had everything taken care of."

"Auto accident?" Sherlock suddenly questioned.

"What?" I said. How could he have known that?

"It was an automobile accident by my guess. Your conversation suggests it was a sudden death but nothing too extraordinary. Automobile accidents being one of the leading causes of death, it seemed a feasible assumption. You were the only child. Also the only survivor, your father having been removed from the picture when you were quite young. Your mention of 'I' rather than 'we' revealed as much."

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "This isn't necessary."

"What is he doing?" I asked Mrs. Hudson flatly, expressionless.

"He does that," John said.

"Oh, he's just showing off," Mrs. Hudson declared.

"You're one of those super-perceptive people, aren't you?" I asked. "I've read about people like you. Your brain is remarkable—textbook."

"I know. Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock questioned.

"You tell me," I countered. I could play his game. I may not be able to think like him, but I knew his type. I had read enough about his type while researching my own bizarre brain. He stared at me, seemingly unsure of what to say next. "Let me do your work for you," I started again. "The tags on my bags say I've flown in from Tucson, Arizona. Yes, I'm from Arizona. My demeanor suggests I was raised by a single parent—a female. Yes, my mother, Grace. What about my dad? Well, you can probably smell wine on my breath, which suggests that I have inherited a taste for alcohol, obviously from my father. What condition tends to remove alcoholics from the world of the living? Heart disease or liver disease. I'll make it easy on you and go ahead and tell you that it was the liver—cirrhosis of the liver to be exact."

"Oh, dear…" Mrs. Hudson fidgeted nervously.

"Did I leave anything out?" I asked, completely satisfied with myself. In fact, I was completely in awe of myself. He continued to stare.

"Americans," he finally muttered under his breath. "Good day, Mrs. Hudson." And then he disappeared up the stairs. John continued to stand at the bottom of the steps in the middle of the hallway, studying me with an amused expression on his face.

"Wow," he said. "I think you might have put him in his place." I chuckled at this.

"I had to get to him before he could get to me. It was just a precaution…" I trailed off as I stared up the stairs after him. "I suppose we started off on the wrong foot, didn't we?" I was suddenly a little worried about the coming weeks and living so near someone who had an obvious dislike toward me so soon.

"Don't worry," Mrs. Hudson assured me.

"He'll grow on you," John laughed. "What you told him… are you able to make those observations about other people?"

"No," I answered. "The only reason I was able to do that was because I knew everything was true. If it were anyone else, I would just be guessing."

"Eh, would you like help with your cases?" he asked. I accepted with a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**While on Baker Street**

**-2-**

"Hello?" I called through the door of the upstairs flat, 221B, as I knocked on the doorframe. The door had been left ajar, but I wasn't about to invite myself in.

"Yes, Miss Middleton?" It was Sherlock's baritone voice that answered me.

"May I come in a moment?" I asked, my arms holding a tray with one of my fresh baked apple pies.

"If you must," he sighed. I nudged the door open with the tray to find Sherlock lounging in a chair in a scarlet dressing gown with a violin lying in his lap.

"I came up with a peace offering," I told him, stepping through the doorway. "I apologize for my abrasive attitude earlier. I've always been on the defensive when it comes to meeting new people.

"I understand your approach," he admitted.

"Then you'll forgive me?" I asked.

"What's this peace offering you spoke of?"

"Good ole American apple pie," I said through an enthusiastic smile.

"There's cheese on it," he observed.

"I'm American. And from the south," I reminded him with emphasis.

"Hm, none for me, thanks. Leave it in the kitchen, and I'm sure John will enjoy it." I nodded and turned the corner into the kitchen. The table and countertops were covered with an array of papers, vials, and petri dishes. I found a lightly littered part of the counter, pushed the few papers there aside, and laid down the pie.

"Working on anything interesting?" I questioned as I returned to the living room area. Sherlock wouldn't make eye contact.

"Is small talk really necessary?" he asked instead.

"No," I answered honestly. "No, it's not. I just want to show you that I'm not some spoiled American brat... I'm here to help Mrs. Hudson renovate the basement flat. That's what I do back in the states," I said conversationally. "I plan and perform home renovations."

_Sherlock stands from his seat and lunges toward me, pinning me up against the wall. His mouth first lands on my lips and then trails down my neck._

I looked up to see Sherlock still sitting but studying me carefully.

"Fascinating," he said. I had to think back to the last thing I said. Right, my job. As I processed his simple comment, I couldn't help but take it for sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, am I boring you?" I asked him aggressively.

"On the contrary, Jaime, I am indeed fascinated."

"Okay, Mr. Sarcasm, my job isn't all that interesting."

"No," he said flatly. "What I find fascinating is your ability to drift in and out of altered states of consciousness so quickly. You almost did it flawlessly. Any ordinary person might not have noticed it, but as you so eloquently proclaimed earlier, you understand that I am much more perceptive than the average person." I exhaled heavily and turned my head toward the opposite wall, not wanting to look at his beautiful face. I weighed my options for proper responses and went with the easiest.

"Good night, Sherlock," I said, and I turned to retreat down the stairs.

"Simply wonderful," Mrs. Hudson said as I continued to ponder over the schematics of the basement flat.

"Glad you think so because I don't see it quite yet," I admitted. I had had a few fleeting ideas, but every time I tried them on my physical canvas, a measurement would be off or I would be distracted by another matter that needed my attention. Technicalities here, and zoning restrictions there.

"You being here is wonderful enough," she told me, reaching across the small kitchen table and threading my hair behind my ear. "How are you feeling?"

"It's been a few years; I've adjusted," I answered.

"I was talking about… you know… your head," she said, seemingly unable to better frame her question.

"Oh," I said with a chuckle. "I'm fine. It's just harder to control when I'm around certain people." I thought back to my brief experience with Sherlock on my first night. "I think Sherlock noticed me drift when I brought the pie up that night."

"Sherlock notices everything," Mrs. Hudson confirmed.

"Regardless, you won't tell anyone, will you?" I asked.

"Of course not, dear," she promised, taking my face in her hands and placing a kiss on my forehead. I touched my hand to one of hers.

"Thanks."

"Mrs. Hudson?" John had popped his head into the kitchen. I turned in my seat to face the doorway where he stood. "Oh, Jaime! You were exactly the person I was looking for."

"Oh?" I inquired.

"I never had a chance to thank you for the pie. It was very, very good. Even Sherlock grabbed a piece," he said.

"He seemed disgusted at the thought of the cheese on top," I mentioned through a triumphant smile.

"Sometimes I think he's disgusted at every thing other than himself," John laughed.

"Oh, play nice," Mrs. Hudson warned, but she was very poorly fighting back a bit of laughter herself.


	3. Chapter 3

**While on Baker Street**

**-3-**

"And… ta-da!" I exclaimed as I showed Mrs. Hudson the last of my drawings for the flat. I had finally come up with something I felt quite confident about.

"Beautiful!"

"What's beautiful?" I heard Sherlock ask from behind me.

"Look! Look at this, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, showing him one of my blueprints.

"We're finally able to start finalizing our plans," I told him without looking at him. This was the first I had encountered him since I had delivered the pie.

"Yeah?" asked John, who had just joined Sherlock at his side and peered over his shoulder to get a glimpse of my traces.

"We were just about to do a walkthrough and imagine things completed. Would you boys like to join us?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," I interjected.

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Hudson, slightly taken aback.

"Because if one tiny thing is off, Sherlock will waste no time pointing it out."

"Maybe that's a good thing," she assured me. "That way we can fix it quickly." Both Mrs. Hudson and John stared at me expectantly. I didn't know what expression Sherlock had because I still refused to find out.

"Oh, all right," I caved, gathering all of my written plans before following everyone else down into the basement flat.

"Okay, for starters, this paneling has got to go," I said as soon as we had all gathered there. I walked them through my plans for paint, tile, carpet, countertops, cabinets, and fixtures. In addition, it was important to attend to health inspector concerns of mold and any pests that may have been there.

"Brilliant," John assured me as our walkthrough was coming to a close.

"Isn't it?!" Mrs. Hudson ventured.

"Jaime," Sherlock said.

"Yes?" I responded, still not looking at him.

"I have a concern about the carpet in the bedroom."

"Oh?" I questioned.

"Yes, follow me and we'll discuss it," he requested. "John, Mrs. Hudson, talk about paint colors for the kitchen since it's still undecided for that space." Before I could decline, his coattails had disappeared down the hall toward the bedroom. I turned to John and Mrs. Hudson, each with a slightly confused expression upon their faces. I sighed and made my way to the bedroom.

"Look, I know we'll have to destroy the flooring that's left here, but once we get that taken care of—"

"You've been avoiding me," Sherlock claimed, turning on me and forcing me to meet his gaze.

"I've been busy," I told him. "Besides, what does it matter?"

"I…" he started. "I liked the pie." I smiled at this.

"So I've heard."

_Sherlock reaches for my arm, lightly trailing his fingertips across my wrist. My breath catches in my throat, and Sherlock responds by stepping even closer. He's so close I can feel his breath on my skin, and I become lost in his brilliant irises. My mouth is suddenly on his, and his hands find my backside. He lifts me up, and my legs hitch around his waist. I can't breathe._

"Jaime?" I heard as I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. I inhaled sharply and leapt backwards.

"Don't touch me!" I demanded. Sherlock seemed to be a combination of surprised and confused.

"What just happened?" he questioned.

"You're smart; you figure it out," I told him venomously, and I turned to leave the flat in a storm.

"Jaime?" I could hear Mrs. Hudson call as I hastily passed the kitchen. I raced up the steps toward Mrs. Hudson's ground floor flat and quickly found the washroom. I locked the door and soaked my face in cold water at the sink. I was getting so good at controlling them, so why couldn't I be alone in a room with Sherlock without experiencing one? And why did I have to freak out like I did after the fact? I was suddenly embarrassed and buried my face in my hands.

"Jaime?" I heard Mrs. Hudson call through the flat. "Dear, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I choked out from behind the bathroom door. I could hear her approaching footsteps after I gave away my hiding place.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" she whispered through the door.

"I… I let my mind slip away again," I admitted. "Sherlock had to call me back. And then I just panicked." I sighed heavily. "Give me a few moments alone, please."

It had grown dark very quickly, and a fierce rainstorm had blown in. I climbed the steps as I listened to the harmony between the rainfall and the violin from the flat at the top of the stairs. Before I announced my presence, I studied what was beyond the doorway: John staring at his computer screen and Sherlock playing the violin in an emerald dressing gown, facing the window to the outside. I waited for Sherlock to complete his tune, and as he lowered his instrument, I spoke.

"The doctors say it's schizophrenia," I said, my eyes jumping back and forth between Sherlock and John, trying to gauge their reactions.

"But you don't seem to think so," Sherlock decided.

"I'm not sure," I said. "After all the research I've done, my hallucinations tend to be different from what most people report."

"Different how?" John asked. I took a moment to remind myself that he was a doctor. That was at least what Mrs. Hudson had told me.

"They're more like dreams to me. I just… dissociate. And I don't know why," I began to say as I turned to Sherlock, "but I have a difficult time controlling them when around you. That's why I've avoided you." I let myself in the flat and leaned up against the armrest of one of the chairs.

"Can I ask a few questions?" John asked.

"Sure," I said. "But be aware that I've seen many doctors already, and for the most part, they tend to agree."

"What's the content like?" John asked.

"Sexual," Sherlock answered for me. I shot my eyes at him, feeling as though he had betrayed my trust somehow. "Pulse, pupil dilations, respiration, it was pretty obvious." This assessment seemed to make John uncomfortable.

"And, uh," John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Have they always been like this? Sexual, I mean." He seemed genuinely interested, tilting his head in a way that indicated concern.

"No," I admitted. "But mostly inappropriate in one fashion or another." Both John and Sherlock were pondering by this point. "Look, I don't need another diagnosis. I just came up to explain what happened earlier. And I'm sorry."

"No worries," said John. "I deal with Sherlock everyday, so I'm used to the unordinary." I turned to Sherlock, expecting some sort of acknowledgement.

"Well, now we know," was all he said. My face must have mirrored the hurt I felt, because John immediately looked at Sherlock with an offended expression. I let a few moments pass, but nothing more was said.

"Good night, guys," I said, and I turned to leave. This quick retreat was beginning to suit me.

"Could you practice just a little more sensitivity?" I heard John ask as I descended the steps. I kept up my momentum, not waiting for Sherlock's response.

"Come on. Come on, you silly panel," I begged as I pried the old wooden panel from the wall of the basement flat. I was covered head to toe in dirt and dust; my fingers were beginning to blister at my work. Finally, the panel gave way and popped from its place on the wall.

"Hello, Jaime," I heard Sherlock say. I turned to see him standing in the doorway with John.

"Have you come to seduce me?" I teased sourly.

"Any seduction that occurs is purely unintentional," he assured.

"We want to lend a hand," John interrupted.

"No, John wants to lend a hand, and he thinks I should join in as well as some sort of apology for how I responded to your confession the last time we spoke," Sherlock said.

"That is incredibly considerate you of you, John. And Sherlock, I appreciate your cooperation," I said. It really was a sweet gesture. John and Sherlock exchanged a brief look.

"And I was taught some time ago to appreciate others in one's life," Sherlock said. Wow, that must have taken a lot for him to admit. My shock was obvious because I was speechless for a few moments.

"Thank you, Sherlock," I was finally able to get out. "I'm… I'm very pleased to hear you say that."

The guys were actually a great help. Especially since they both allowed me to stay in charge and do my job. They didn't argue when I asked them to do something for me, not even Sherlock. The worst I got from him was a look of uncertainty, but I would tell him to just do it anyway. Surprisingly, he would oblige. Eventually, John and I were joking abundantly, and I got to witness the very rare Sherlock Holmes laugh. The whole afternoon was a treat indeed.

"So, don't you guys have some mystery you should be solving instead of engaging in slave labor?" I asked as I wiped my hands clean of the day's dirt.

"Physics researchers of the past would engage in alternate, somewhat menial activities that wouldn't require too much brain power while waiting for flashes of inspiration within their empirical studies. That's part of the reason we're down here," Sherlock explained.

"I feel like I should be offended, but I'm just too grateful for your help," I told them.

"We needed to give our minds a break, and you needed help. It was an easy decision," John told me.

"Well thank you again," I said, touching each of them on the forearm with either hand to extend my gratitude.

_Sherlock pushes John from my touch, then pulls me close to whisper nonsensical terms of endearment into my ear. I could feel the heat from his skin radiating off of my own._

"Jaime," Sherlock interrupted my mind, obviously aware of where it had gone. I cleared my throat and smiled sheepishly at each of them.

"Sorry," I professed in a whisper.

"No worries," John reminded me as he gave me a quick, friendly tap on my shoulder. I smiled again, but this time in sheer appreciation.


End file.
